Glances Down a Serpent Hole
by Saesama
Summary: A series of almost-canon oneshots. Next: Death faces the possible consequences of his choices, and Strife takes on a heavy burden.
1. Treacherous Snake

_Now the serpent was more subtle than any beast of the field which the LORD God had made. And he said unto the woman, Yea, hath God said, Ye shall not eat of every tree of the garden? - Genesis 3:1_

o o o

Treachery snarled and gutted the angel with his claws. The angel screamed and died, but the gaping wound from its sword still arrowed through his body, and his lifeblood still gushed to the ground. No doubt, the wound was mortal.

Holding the ugly hole shut, Treachery staggered upright, surveying Paradise. Nephilim and angels fell, left and right, but too many of the former and too few of the latter. The battle was lost, just inside Eden's gates, and the nephilim would be wiped from the face of the world.

Perhaps not all. Not far from his position, Death and War fought back to back, power rising from them in terrible waves. Of course, the bastard traitors would thrive. There were others on their side that were not just surviving but flourishing, but it would not be enough. How could so few stand before so many of the Creator's perfected warriors and the traitor Horsemen? The nephilim were obsolete. They would fall.

Fresh pain gripped him, and he grit his teeth. He would not let go of this battle, not until all options were exhausted. They were betrayed, cast aside as if refuse, and denied paradise in favor of _dust_, pathetic dust-born creatures who even now cowered in fear and ignorance. And the angels doted on the sniveling beasts, ignoring their direct sires as primitive and corrupt. They would pay, they would _all_ pay, and where strength had failed him, his mind had not. Not yet.

He wavered and fell to a knee, blood gushing anew from his body. He was in his death-throes, but he could still see, could still look- there. A serpent darted from its hole, waving panic-stricken lines between combatants and corpses, and it came too close. Treachery reached out with his power and ensnared the simple creature, forcing himself into the too-small mind. He'd have to leave some of himself behind; too much, maybe, but his body was dying and he could only last so long within another's shell. He wouldn't need what he had left. He kept his malice, his hatred, his plan and discarded the rest with a pang.

His body thudded to the dirt, already cooling. He slithered deeper into Eden.

The laws of Eden were known to all of its inhabitants, and the snake was no exception. Coldly, he reviewed the strict laws, smiling to himself. The humans _were_ ignorant by design, and forbidden to eat of the fruits of the Trees of Knowledge and Life, as every other major creation of the Creator already had. They would live stupid, empty, short lives and die.

He would wait, until the battle was over, as long as he dared, then find one of them alone and speak to it, cajole it, convince it. Laws were so easily broken, and the ignorant were always the easiest to manipulate.


	2. Final Plague

_12 'For I will pass through the land of Egypt on that night, and will strike all the firstborn in the land of Egypt, both man and beast; and against all the gods of Egypt I will execute judgment: I am the LORD. 13 Now the blood shall be a sign for you on the houses where you are. And when I see the blood, I will pass over you; and the plague shall not be on you to destroy you when I strike the land of Egypt._

_~Exodus 12:12-13_

_For the last of the Plagues, Azrael stole away the souls of the first-born of Egypt, an act so devastating that the Pharaoh finally was forced to let the Hebrews go._

_~The Book of Angels_

o o o

Zachia ben Zuriah huffed, almost running to keep up with his brother. Malachai was hurrying, head up and eyes alert for danger, the precious lamb tucked under his arm. They were late, so very late, and Mother would worry. The free men had noticed the way the slaves were gathering lambs, and the sudden 'drop' in supply meant they could charge much more for one. The merchant had been suspicious, despite the story of a slave festival that the Prophet's brother had had spread. They had been delayed far too long, and night was setting in. The Prophet's words echoed in their minds, and though Zachia was young, he knew better than to complain about the pace Malachai was setting.

Voices, raucous and sharp, and Malachai stopped short. Free men, barely past their rights of passage, drunk and jeering up the street. One saw them and pointed, and Malachai turned on Zachia with fear in his eyes. "Take the lamb," he urged, thrusting the tiny creature into his hands. "Go back to Mother. Hurry!"

"Not without you," Zachia shook his head, holding the lamb tight enough that it protested, bleating. The free men stalked closer.

"I'll be along quickly," Malachai hissed. "They'll follow if we both run. Go, now!" Zachia swallowed and darted for the nearest alley. Pinching the lamb's mouth shut, he turned to watch.

One of the free men got in Malachai's face, angry about something. Malachai ducked his head, in a show of respect that Zachia knew he didn't feel, and responded politely. The free man punched Malachai in the face and the older boy fell to the ground.

Zachia bit the inside of his arm, keening into his sleeve as Malachai was beaten by the free men. The lamb, the precious creature that would save their sister's sons, struggled in his grip. He was too little to do anything, too young and a slave, and he had to get the lamb home before the midnight crier sang, but he couldn't leave his brother behind. He wavered between duties, and he had almost decided to charge anyway, when the tall man appeared.

He was _impossibly_ tall, taller than Father, than the Prophet, taller even than the Pharaoh. He wore a dark hood, and the glimpse of his face that Zachia saw was as pale as the Pharaoh's wives. He stalked up behind one of the free men and at his touch, the free man fell to the ground, asleep or dead.

The others turned on him, outraged and swinging. He touched each in turn, pulling back with a hard yanking motion, as if pulling something away, and they fell before him. The last one Zachia saw clearly, and he nearly screamed when the tall man's fingers passed into the free man's body like smoke and pulled on nothing. The free man dropped, and the tall man stepped over his body, crouching beside Malachai.

"No!" Zachia yelled. He ran forward, tripped, and the lamb got loose, running away. Zachia cried out in despair, lunging for the lamb and he only fell again, barking his hands and knees.

The tall man touched Malachai gently and stood, his feet silent on the hard dirt street. Zachia wept bitterly, bowing his head. Malachai was dead, he'd lost the lamb that would save his nephews, and now this sorcerer would kill him, too. He forced himself to look up; Malachai would have wanted him to look up, to face his death as a man, and what he saw shocked his sobs silent.

The tall man had wings. Great, white wings that seemed both there and not, rising above his head. He pushed back his hood and his hair was as pale as his wings, falling about his shoulders. He was so beautiful and so sad that Zachia's heart ached.

The man was a messenger of the Lord. An angel.

"Rise, Zachia ben Zuriah," the angel said, his voice deep and soothing. "Cease your tears. Your brother will not die tonight." Zachia stumbled to his feet, terrified of disobeying, and the angel's next words turned his veins to ice. "Where is your home? Your brother is in no condition to walk. I would see you both home safe before I continue my work."

Zachia shook his head sharply. "The Prophet warned us," he whispered. "Death is coming to the city tonight." His eyes darted to the free men, all so very still. "I think you are a death angel."

"I am," the angel replied. Zachia bit his tongue on a despairing moan, and the angel looked at him curiously. "What fear do you have of me? Are you not a follower of the Lord?"

"I lost the lamb," Zachia said miserably. "We won't have the blood above our door. My sister's sons were forced on her, but she loves them, and they are their father's first sons. I do not want them to die." His breath hitched. "I do not want you to kill them."

The angel crouched to his level, there-not there wings furling around them both. "The lamb's blood is to tell me which houses to spare," he said gently. "Showing me serves the same purpose."

"Promise?" Zachia blurted, then winced. Who was he to demand anything of an angel?

"Azrael of the White City gives his word," was the solemn reply.

Zachia took two panicky breaths and nodded. The angel straightened and carefully scooped Malachai into his arms. Malachai grunted sleepily and turned his face against Azrael's chest, and Zachia felt his heart leap. Malachai was _alive_! Swallowing past the fierce lump of joy and terror in his throat, he turned to lead the way.

A free man was sent screaming into the night at the sight of them, and Zachia wondered what a follower of the Pharaoh's beast-gods saw when they saw the angel, but they went unharmed. Mother was waiting outside the house, and she fell against the wall when she saw Azrael, her knuckle between her teeth and her eyes wide in fear.

Zachia ran up to mother and pulled her sleeve, to no effect. "Ah, this way, my Lord," he said, holding open the door instead. Azrael accorded Mother a polite nod as he passed her, and she seemed about to faint.

The angel appeared even taller indoors, and the phantoms of his wings filled the tiny space. Father rose from his seat, then fell to his knees, working his mouth soundlessly. Sarah did not scream, but she put herself between Azrael and her young sons, and Zachia saw the small knife in her hand. He waved her down irritably, and led Azrael to the pallet he and Malachai shared.

Azrael was very careful in setting Malachai down, easing him onto the blanket. Malachai's bruises stood out in the firelight, and if Zachia watched long enough, he could see them shrink. Mother had come in and knelt at father's side, and they placed their foreheads on the ground. Azrael gave them a bemused look, then placed his hand on Zachia's shoulder, still kneeling beside the pallet. This close, with ghost feathers laying over his shoulder, he realized that the angel had no darks to his eyes, and intricate shapes up the side of his face. "I am not Death," Azrael murmured, tracing the same shape around Zachia's eye. "But I have stepped into his role, and his blessing is mine to give. You will live a long and fruitful life, Zachia ben Zuriah, as a free man. Your love for your family will be returned to you ten-fold. I only ask that you continue to care for them as you do now."

Zachia wrapped his arms around Azrael's neck and hugged tightly. "I will," he whispered fiercely, hot tears stinging in the corners of his eyes. "I will, thank you, thank you, for helping my brother."

He let go, quick enough to catch the surprise on Azrael's face. The angel composed himself and stood carefully, stooping to keep from knocking his head on the ceiling. "Do not fear me," he said to Sarah. "Your brother's word has stood in for the lamb's blood." He touched Father on the shoulder as he passed. "Do not kneel to me; I am but a gatekeeper. Do not leave your home tonight."

"Wait," Father rasped sharply, daring to lift his eyes to Azrael's feet. Azrael paused at the door, and Father swallowed twice before he was able to speak. "My Lord Gatekeeper, why? You..." A harsh choking sound. "I know you are the Death-angel the Prophet warned us of. Why help my sons?"

Azrael was quiet for a long time, long enough that Father cringed against the floor in expectation of a blow. "Tonight, I am the wrath of the Lord," Azrael said quietly, pulling up his hood. "But I am also His mercy." And then he was gone, with the sound of a hundred wings flapping from outside the ajar door.

o o o

_29 And it came to pass at midnight that the LORD struck all the firstborn in the land of Egypt, from the firstborn of Pharaoh who sat on his throne to the firstborn of the captive who was in the dungeon, and all the firstborn of livestock. 30 So Pharaoh rose in the night, he, all his servants, and all the Egyptians; and there was a great cry in Egypt, for there was not a house where there was not one dead._

_Exodus 12:29-30_


	3. To Rule in Hell

End of game spoilers.

o o o

Samael spread his hands and his wings at his sides, the asphalt boiling away from his feet as if in agony, and reveled in the Endwar as his troops decimated their alloted swath of the human city.

The city seemed an odd place for the heart of the Endwar. There were other places that seemed, at first glance, more appropriate; larger cities, military strongholds, holy sites. but now, with all of the armies of Heaven and Hell on earth, nothing was hidden, and the celestial and abyssal ley lines were perfectly clear. The abyssal ley lines intersected in this city, and Samael followed one of them to the Nexus.

To his left, he could see the Leviathan rise from the city bay in wave after wave of gleaming scale. Belphegor and Tiamat were visible to his right, and he could feel the rest, the Nine Lords of the Nine rings of Hell, and at the Nexus, their Queen and Prince.

The Prince of Lies perched atop a jagged mountain of twisted earth, his claws spread to his little brothers and sisters in threat and welcome both. Almost lost in his shadow, Lilith waited, eternally amused, and every demon lord focused on her alone. Their trek up the leys was all part of the ritual, the Adversary's presence a polite formality. His time was over and all of Hell knew it. The new throne would be established on earth, and Lilith would pick the one worthy to fill it.

A scout in his ear. The Hellguard rode in the city. So did War. No sign of the other Horsemen, but no matter. Not even eternal Death could stop this.

"Lilith!" Samael called out, placing one foot on the slope that led to Hell's rulers. "Dark Queen, Demon Mother. The time has come; choose now, and fill the throne of Hell on Earth."

The Prince grinned down at them all, blood seeping down his chin. "Such an eager little troop," he sneered, but even he knew that his power was drained at last. "So willing to kill their own brother."

"Your time is at an end, old man," Samael retorted. "And ours has come. Choose, Mother Demon, so that our work may begin."

"Pride goeth before the Fall, Samael," Lilith purred. "Your pride has spurred you to Fall once before, and now you fall from favor once more." She spread her hands wide, as if drawing the whole world into her deadly embrace. "I do choose!" she cried, black lightning splitting the sky. "But I do not choose from the demon Lords, who have crawled up to ascend this crest. I choose the one who has come from above to end the world. I choose the Destroyer!" her eyes met Samael's, wicked glee to stunned rage. "I choose Abaddon," she whispered.

The great dragon slammed into the Prince, fangs ripping at the ancient demon's throat. The Adversary screamed, but he was laughing through his scream, laughing as he died. The Destroyer - _Abaddon_ the Destroyer - tossed away the broken corpse and roared at the sky, wings flared.

"What trickery is this?" Samael bellowed, eyes narrowed against the acidic rain that fell from the broken sky.

"No trick," Lilith replied, her hand resting fondly on Abaddon's foreleg. Abaddon shuddered under her touch but accepted it, clawing at the rock. "He has achieved what all of you have failed," Lilith continued. "The destruction of earth, the downfall of the Hellguard, and the end of the Four." Abbadon roared again, impossible sorrow and regret echoing through the city, underlaid with shattered madness as he both grieved and accepted his actions. "He has proven himself beyond _all_ demons. Hell's throne belongs to the Destroyer."

"We will not stand for this," the Leviathan hissed. "We all know; the Throne is Samael's, and I would rather follow him than the Hellguard bastard." Her sinuous body edged around the spire, and her tail curled around Samael's legs. "I followed you from Heaven, Samael," she said, baring her teeth at Lilith. "I will follow you once more, if you but promise that we shall kill the upstart."

"I agree," Temeluchus rumbled. Another added his voice, and another; five of the other eight, all arranging themselves to stand behind and below Samael. The last three moved in the opposite direction, aligning themselves with the Destroyer, swearing loyalty with position alone.

"Six of the Nine stand against you," Samael said, casting a derisive eye over the three who had elected to stand by the fallen Hellguard. "Six who are all worthy of Hell's throne." No harm in throwing a little flattery at his new followers, was there? "Do you think you can kill us all?" He bared his teeth in a dead grin. "I taught you your trade before my Fall, whelp. Do you think you can kill _me_?"

Abaddon lowered his head, scaled muscle tensing. "Who said anything about killing you, Samael?" he asked, his first words since his arrival. "I intend for you to live a very, very long time."

The Destroyer pounced. Samael's grin widened and he readied himself for battle.


	4. Weakness

o o o

Death stood before the Charred Council, alone. Anger lashed the air like a serpent's tongue, heating the air and dancing firebrand sparks along his armor. Death looked up at the center of the stone skulls, and his voice when he spoke was exaggeratedly pleasant. "What is the will of the Council?"

Pain lanced through him, spiking in his veins as if his very blood boiled with caustic fluids. Gritting his teeth, Death dropped to a knee, riding out the intial wave without a sound. Finally, the pain abated, and Death let out a harsh laugh. "Apparently, it is your will that I grovel," he managed.

"**Your arrogance shall be your downfall, Horseman,**" thundered the very air around him. Some days, the stone skulls seemed separate creatures, with separate wills. Today they spoke and raged as one, united in their fury. He wondered which was the truth. "**You were forbidden to go back to that world.**"

"Fury was still there," Death responded. "I managed to bring her back with me."

"**And at what cost? You both are weakened, and will be for a long time. Instead of one whole Horseman, we have two weakened wastes.**"

"We will heal."

More pain, lightning arcing across his body and leaving behind scorched trails. "**Look at you! You cannot even stand before us. What have you done, save ensure Fury suffers the same?**"

Death bared his teeth behind his mask. "I would not leave her behind," he snarled.

"**Oh, we know.**" Abruptly, the pain eased. With his caught breath, he drew in a tableau of images, all from his own past. Stabbing himself with the Chaoseater, to rekindle War's life. Chanting necromantic rites and digging the Harvester deep into his own arm to spill his blood against Fury's slack lips. Daring Azrael's wrath to dive into the Well of Souls itself after Strife's soul. "**We know very well, Horseman, how far you will go to save their lives, to pull them back from beyond death.**"

"And it is to your benefit," Death barked. "What good would the Horsemen be, were there one instead of four?"

"**Is that the only reason?**" More memories, dredged from his mind; their race cut down by angelic swords, Life dead in his arms before she even drew a breath. "**You've lost so much, Death. We doubt you continue to bring back the rest because of how it 'benefits' us**."

The memories repeated, expanded. War dead because he let Mortis know their plan. Fury dead because he'd rode on and left her to a demon horde. Strife dead because he'd sent the other against an angelic force he'd have no hope of defeating as a distraction. Absalom cursing his name as he died. Life dead because he'd drained her life energy to sustain his own as they were made. "**But how much would they hate you, to know that every time, they died, it was your fault? That the loss of your race to madness was your fault? That you've betrayed them again and again, that you will continue to do so, for eternity?**"

Another image, not of the past but a possible future; bullets and sword and whip biting his flesh, rending him down, and their scorn, their hatred, their betrayal etched into their faces as they tore him apart for letting them fall, again and again, and finally turning their backs on him, leaving him broken in the dirt of a dead realm and the last of his kind. "**We can take them from you, Horseman, without even bruising them. We can take them and place them where even you cannot reach**." The pain returned, the worst yet, punctuated with their expressions as the Council revealed the past and they began to loathe him. "**Even you have a chink in your armor, Reaper. Do not force us to exploit it.**"

Finally, the pain stopped. He was dismissed. Slowly, Death stood and turned towards the portal opened for him. He paused halfway there, not quite looking back. "You know," he said softly. "Every time they fell, every time, I defied the Council's orders to bring them back. I may have let them fall, but I have _never_ let anything stop me from pulling them back up. They are far from fools, and if you tell them everything, they just may figure everything out. And their hatred for me with be _nothing_ compared to their hatred for you." Not waiting for a response, Death stepped into the portal.


	5. Unforgovable

o o o

Strife stood on the hill above the nephilim camp, his helmet under his arm. From the distance came the sounds of a battle already won; Absalom lay dead, and the remaining nephilim could not hope to defeat both Michael's armies and the Horsemen. Now, it was only cleanup that remained.

Only Death knew where he was. Fury would be infuriated but resigned, had she known; she had most protested the Council's insistence that the nephilim be wiped out to a soul. Only were she given a direct order, would she complete the same task. War would never be told. There were limits to the atrocities War would commit, and if he knew, he'd kill Strife without remorse.

A formidable female stood at Strife's side, looking down at the camp with him. She was a full head taller than War and equally as broad. One of the earliest Firstborn, she had guarded the nephilim's resting places since there were enough of them to constitute a race instead of a mistake. Perhaps Death alone was the only living soul who knew her true name. Strife called her as he'd always known her. "They will not suffer, Hearth-mother."

"I suppose not," she replied woodenly. She seemed so much smaller in defeat, her shoulders sagged and her head dropped. "You've too much pride in your craft to miss."

"Pride nothing. Even I have no taste for torture." He looked at her out of the corner of his eye. "Will they come when you call?"

She looked back, and he had a memory of sitting at her knee and learning to clean a blade. "Would you have?" she countered.

"Of course," he murmured, looking away before his emotions betrayed him. "The first lesson is always obedience."

"And it still is." She raised her chin, looking out over the valley, an inscrutable effigy of flesh. "They will come."

"Then call."

The Hearth-mother loosed a piercing whistle that seemed to echo through time as well as space, down the unfathomable years to bring another memory, one of a child's pristine fear. All nephilim knew that noise, and Strife did not doubt that some who still fought on the battlefield heard and set down their arms. The Hearth-mother only taught that lesson once to each nephilim she'd raised, and it was one never forgotten.

Defeat.

From the camp came a dozen or so children. The eldest was just barely shy her rights of passage, the youngest an infant held in the arms of another. One or two wept with quiet dignity, tears streaking their faces. Most, even youngsters that didn't even reach Strife's waist, were as wooden as the Hearth-mother, defeated and resigned to their fates. They stared at Strife as they passed, each walking to the Hearth-mother to touch the hem of her skirts, then past to kneel on the ground. They all knew what was expected of them, they all knew better than to run and be hunted. The Hearth-mother took the infant in her arms and stood by, waiting. Witnessing.

Strife drew Mercy, briefly spinning the cylinder with his thumb. The first of the children stared up at the barrel aimed between his eyes, and Strife swam in the hatred in the boy's gaze before he pulled the trigger.


End file.
